


The Space Between Silences

by Aestera



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, Grieving John, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Romance, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 13:32:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8669608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aestera/pseuds/Aestera
Summary: Six days after meeting John, Sherlock searches for ways to tune out his flat mate's deafening presence. Six months after Sherlock's suicide, John struggles to do the same.





	

The detective curled in on himself.

A position no one had ever witnessed him in. Well, almost no one. And he would prefer to keep it that way. It was as if his spine had crumpled from his daily façade of fitted button ups and signature scorn. He felt...detached from everything that made him him. The ashy raven sweep of his coat and hair. Cheekbones that could slice into you but it always would be the words of his tongue that left the scars. Tiresome. Tedious.

He felt almost as gaunt as he probably looked. It was the most vulnerable he’d ever been. And he was glad for the silence. The monotonous hum that came after each case. It was how he knew that the beast’s appetite had been temporarily sated. Like a hundred pounds had suddenly been shed. The headache was gone. If only for a moment.

But without the distraction of a case, he was struck by a momentary numbness. That was dangerous, as it opened up the possibility of needing something other the thrill of the chase. A hunger for something more than starlight and murder.

Sherlock Holmes was used to hunger. If he ever failed to impress with deduction, he always had his uncanny ability to go for days on end without sustenance. He only succumbed to his primal needs when his blood sugar level fell dangerously low, and John threatened to donate all his chemistry equipment to Bart’s if he refused to take a bite of last night’s Chinese. He would always oblige at that point, scarfing down rice dumplings with a smirk and telling John that he meant ‘return’ rather than ‘donate’. It had been only just shy of a week since their first encounter at St. Bart’s, and they had already fallen into a certain groove in terms of their living arrangements. They had become familiar with the habits of the other, adjusting their daily schedules to accommodate the influx of new cases. They were all fairly simple; he had solved them all within days, which led to the current dry spell.

He rolled over on his back, hands just above his pelvis. Hunger could always be sated with food. But this, this was more like an itch you just couldn’t reach no matter how hard you tried.

He couldn’t put a name to that feeling. It ran deep under the pallor of his skin, latching on to his bones. It usually pooled in the pit of his stomach, sending pulses of electricity between his thighs, interrupting his thought process.

It had a terrifying amount of control over him. He dug his fingernails into his palms.

Lack of control over his own body was something he greatly feared.

And Sherlock Holmes did not react well to fear.

XXXX

An emotion rather akin to fear had begun to seep through the doctor. His hands were shaking badly, fingers throbbing and aching, and he had dropped the PIN machine several times.

It took everything in him not to tear the hunk of metal in front of him to pieces. The worthless piece of shit. His patience seemed to be hanging by thread these days, as if his grief had been replaced a new innate desire to rip anything and everything apart. It didn’t help that his limp was back and he had to take his cane everywhere he went.

He knew it couldn’t be Mycroft as it already had been about twenty minutes since his first attempt and there had been no mysterious phone call to rendezvous with a black limo. In fact, the ubiquitous vehicle had made itself scarce in the past few weeks. There had been a few texts, but John had ignored every single one of them, and they had eventually stopped.

He keyed in his PIN code again, to the flashing response of ‘card not recognized’. He muttered a few swear words under his breath. They came out more audibly than he hoped, earning him several stares and tuts from a group of elderly ladies.

After a few more failed attempts and several more snippets of his colorful vocabulary, he proceeded to the cashier.

“Lovely weather today.” The cashier smiled.

“Bit cold for March.” John fumbled for his wallet, clumsy hands closing on his keys instead. You had a row with a machine, Sherlock had inquired, with an upward arch of his elegant eyebrows. There it was again, the hollowness. Knotting up his insides. The perfectly normal assortment of eggs, bread and milk currently spread out on the counter suddenly looked somewhat grotesque, like a body with several missing limbs. He tried not to dwell on the fact that he had almost picked up a pack of nicotine patches on the way to the cashier.

“Your change, sir.” said the cashier just as he was about to leave the shop.

“Keep it. For the new chip and pin machine donation fund.”

The lady gave him a brief nod and pocketed it, a sly smile in her eyes that John knew all too well. An unspoken invitation for a tussle in the stockroom. A year ago he wouldn’t have thought twice. He sees what he shouldn’t now: drugstore lipstick smeared on cracked lips, uniform skirt rolled up a couple of times and a circular indentation around her ring finger.

But on that particular day he pretends to be oblivious, even though he had become anything but, muttering a quick ‘thank you’ before gathering up the paper bags and heading out without even a glance backwards.

On the walk home, John noticed that there seemed to be an additional pair of footsteps following him. He turned around, scanning the empty street with a fresh wave of hope before realizing that it was only the clacking of his cane on the concrete pavement.

XXXX

The incessant clacking of John’s fingers running across the keyboard made it impossible for Sherlock to concentrate. He had been working on that absurd blog of his all morning, typing up the entire series of events that led up to the arrest of the murderous cabbie. Sherlock couldn’t fathom why John had insisted on keeping such a detailed account of the case, and on a public platform no less. It wasn’t as if the dimwitted Neanderthals who devoured his mediocre writing could comprehend the complex deductions that went into each case. And the words John used to describe him seemed like something out of lurid romance novel.

Brilliant. Gifted. Inhuman.

It was enough to make his stomach turn.

Sherlock glowered at the back John’s head. He had a good view of it from his armchair, where he was currently crouched. In that moment, Sherlock hated every aspect of John’s existence. His military style cropped hair, the tan expanse of his neck. The arch of his back as he leaned in to check for any spelling errors. He had switched his current soap for a muskier body wash, its woody scent lingering in every crevice of the cramped apartment. Sherlock’s sharp senses had immediately associated the new scent with John and it was suffocating. The deep recesses of his mind reserved for storing crucial information were now filled with a hazy fog that shrouded every wisp of coherent thought, making it impossible to secure a lead.

He had been going through case files of a recent suicide for at least an hour with no results. This was unusual for the detective, who only left the house for cases he deemed to be higher than a seven. And more importantly, who usually only required less than ten minutes to pinpoint a suspect. The case he was working on barely passed for a three, but he was getting desperate for an excuse to leave the apartment. The files contained several pictures of the crime scene, and the autopsy report of Jennifer Calder, 38, who was found faced down on the pavement eight floors below her apartment. There were no obvious signs of struggle or ligature marks on her wrists and ankles. Lestrade had mentioned that she had been inebriated at the time of death and the suicide had probably been nothing more than an accident.

He had scoffed as usual, and made several jibes about the dismal incompetence of Scotland Yard, before pointing out that every single window on the dead woman’s block was shut tight and bolted except for hers. It couldn’t really be considered as hard evidence, since it made sense, as Jennifer had been alone in her apartment when she jumped. But if past cases served as any form of indication, it only took the most minuscule of details to make the possibility of murder surface again in the brilliant mind of the detective.

“Tea?” John’s voice rang loud and clear in the prolonged silence and it almost sent him toppling to the floor. “You’re looking rather peaky. Told you not to skip lunch two days in a row.”

“No.” He cleared his throat. “It’s nothing. I’ll be upstairs.” Sherlock leapt up from the armchair with his signature catlike agility, loping up the stairs two at a time, while ignoring the perplexed frown on John’s face.

He collapsed onto his bed. Even with several meters and a wooden door between them, Sherlock could still feel the prickle of John’s presence on his skin. As if he was nestled right beside him.

Swearing under his breath, Sherlock rolled over and reached under his mattress for a ring of keys, before unlocking his dresser drawer and removing the fake bottom. It wasn’t the best place to store narcotics and other substances but desperate times called for desperate measures.

He ripped open the airtight bag that contained a plastic syringe.

XXXX

John was certain that he had heard a strange thumping coming from upstairs. He mostly slept on the couch these days. It was too quiet upstairs in the bedroom without the sounds coming through the walls from the next room. He never expected that there’d be a day where he would miss them.

It could have just been the neighbors, of course. But he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that ran deep under his skin. After a few more minutes, he finally relented and made his way upstairs.

He paused for a second, quivering fingers slick around the doorknob. He had kept the door shut for the past few months, refusing Mrs. Hudson’s offer to dust every once in a while. There was a part of him that needed the room to be preserved exactly the way it was, like a museum. So that he could go in, when he was ready, to bask in what was left of the chemical tinged presence of his deceased counterpart. He turned the doorknob and for a moment it was too much. Sherlock’s presence was unbearably strong in his one place of solace. Echoes of him in the air. He could almost hear the harsh tone of his voice telling him to get out.

The bed was unmade, and a fine layer of dust had gathered on top of the sheets. It was empty, as expected. John forced himself forward to the dresser, where there was an assortment of cigarette butts and empty plastic bags. The apartment had been swarmed with policemen and forensic staff the day after the suicide and they found a fair amount of cocaine stashed in various parts of his bedroom. He winced, remembering how distracted Sherlock had been during those last few days. The papers had called him a ‘drug dependent recluse’, which wasn’t wrong. It was what most people assumed of him when they first met him. But they had never gotten below the surface. And they never would.

A sudden flash of anger shot through him and he smacked the items off the table with a single swipe. Sherlock’s suicide was a cover up for murder. He was completely certain of it.

“You wouldn’t do something like this.” He said out loud. More to himself, because he needed to hear the words.

He didn’t wait for a reply.

XXXX

“How would you know what she did or didn’t do?”

Sherlock was on the brink of an epiphany, one that had been due about a week ago. It had been a wise decision to visit the crime scene again after going through the reports. Several new pieces of evidence had come to light and he was so close to making the final link. But his new companion had proved to be more of a dead weight than an extra pair of eyes.

“I think it’s suffice to say that you aren’t the best judge of human behavior.” John wrapped his coat tighter around himself. “It’s two in the morning and we’re standing in front of a recently deceased woman’s apartment complex. Did you even tell Lestrade that we were dropping by?”

“What Lestrade doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” He took a few steps backwards and snapped a photo of the block of windows. “Not that his current intellect or personal life could take anymore of a hit.”

He had broken into the apartment of Jennifer Calder just two days ago to do some much needed snooping. All the windows had latches that allowed the occupant to close it from the inside. But the latch in Jennifer’s apartment had been missing at the time of her death, which meant that someone had manipulated the crime scene.

Curious.

It could very well have been the person on the floor above or below her using a pole, and it probably was. But, why? That was the intriguing part. This was where John came in handy. Human relationships were always a bore to him unless they resulted in murder.

He spotted a white object in a nearby drain and walked over to retrieve it. Upon closer examination, he realized that it was the window latch that was missing from Jennifer’s apartment.

“John, we need to set up a meeting with the tenants on the floors above and below as soon as possible.”

“Weren’t you listening? The landlord said that Mr. Shaft on the floor above moved out a day after her body was found.”

He hadn’t been listening. He was fixated on John, the effortless way he made small talk before guiding the conversation towards the dead woman. Warm eyes crinkling in concentration as he listened, course hands penning down notes. He was a specimen on his own, something that he needed to take apart piece by piece, sorting through flesh and bone to find out exactly what made the doctor so…

Delectable.

The case seemed trivial now, in comparison to what was in front of him.

Very curious, indeed.

XXXX

It wasn’t suicide.

John was seated in his armchair, the one that used to be situated across him now hidden in storage. He had spent the day poring over old articles on Sherlock’s death. Newspaper clippings that he had read a thousand times but something in him broke all over again when he saw the words ‘fraud’ and ‘liar’ spelled out in clear black print.

There it was again. A strange inkling that had plagued him ever since that day, that he might still be out there. Somewhere.

There was still a long list of drafts on his blog that he needed to clear. Mostly unsolved cases, Sherlock never did like publicizing those. Public opinion had mattered to him, despite how vehemently he denied it. There was the case of Jennifer Williams, which had been established as a suicide. Sherlock had been convinced that her upstairs neighbor had done the deed, but the man had disappeared without a trace. There hadn’t been sufficient evidence to implicate the man. He had felt that it was a lapse of judgment on Sherlock’s part. He had been restless for days, desperate for a little fun and games that would flex his grey matter.

The case hadn’t been pursued as Scotland Yard had more pressing matters to deal with at the time. It drove Sherlock mad, of course. He never could stand leaving loose ends untied.

A bitter irony, John thought, that he had become one himself.

He was tired of reminiscing. Grief was something of a vicious cycle. He always went to bed feeling a little lighter, only to wake up with the same dead weight on his chest, crushing his ribs. Maybe it was the apartment. He couldn’t bring himself to move out. There were days where he spent hours staring at the tearing plaster, at the bullet holes buried in the walls. The walls seemed to take on a life of their own, their voices getting louder by the day.

It had become clear that he wasn’t mourning. That would indicate a form of acceptance. Progress, in his case.

No, he was waiting.

But six months was a long time to wait for someone to rise from the dead.

He would look at flat shares tomorrow, skim the papers for a good deal. Pack a few bags; there wasn’t much he wanted to take. And then he’d leave, hopefully without looking back.

XXXX

There had to be something he was missing.

He had sent the finger print samples on the fallen window latch to Molly and the results were unexpected. The prints were a match with Jennifer’s.

Molly had personally done the print work for the corpse and she was sure of the match. She even sent him the report. It must have been a mistake. Sherlock Holmes was rarely wrong, and when he was, he went to great lengths to ensure that no one knew about it.

Did Jennifer intend on framing Mr. Shaft? Was this all just some neighborly feud gone wrong?

It didn’t matter anymore. The man was untraceable and his only piece of evidence was now completely useless. It was disappointing, really. Only cowards took their own lives.

He’d better torch the damn thing; he never knew when Lestrade would decide to conduct another spontaneous drug bust.

He had been off his game lately. The world that he knew so well had started to shift. Bright, blinding colors blooming on the edges of monotonous grey.

It was a quiet evening at 221b. He was sprawled out on the couch, eyes closed. He could feel John moving across the room, his tight form turning off the telly and getting ready for bed.

The silence stretched on, slow and unrelenting.

“John-”

“Hmm?”

“Could you…turn the lights off?”

Click of the light switch. Footsteps trudging up the stairs. He opened his mouth to say something else, but stopped himself.

He would be sure to tell him in the morning.

* * *

 A/N: Just my attempt at some post-reichenbach angst. Thanks for reading and all reviews will be greatly appreciated.


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